


Wings, Tails, Scales & Horns

by Elvishdork



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Gender Neutral MC - Freeform, Grooming, They/Them/Their pronouns, acts of love, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27942746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvishdork/pseuds/Elvishdork
Summary: Self-Care and grooming differs between demons and humans.  Some are easier to deal with, others require a more delicate hand.  Fortunately the human exchange student is here to help with the tricky bits.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 167





	Wings, Tails, Scales & Horns

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Corgi ([Pemm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pemm/pseuds/Pemm)) for taking the time to give me some wing references and explain feather care to me for this fic!

Lucifer is the only one of the seven brothers to keep his feathered wings. 

His feathers molt twice a century, and it’s his damned luck that he just so happens to be facing the issue with a human exchange student in the house. At the first signs of his upcoming molt he recedes; locking himself in his room and private study. There is no reason for his brothers - far less so for a human - to see him in such a state; as he has learned painfully with Satan over the several millennia since his creation.

The Avatar of Wrath has an odd sense of intuition when it comes to Lucifer’s molts. Either from being born of a pair of his wings or just for his odd fascination with wearing his discarded feathers; Lucifer isn’t sure.

Lucifer is always more closed off than his brothers, but he’s never been quite a shut-in like Leviathan. So the sudden change in behavior doesn’t go unnoticed by their human guest. “Is something wrong with Lucifer?” they ask at the breakfast table, seeing Lucifer absent at the head of the table for the third morning in a row.

“Don’t worry about it,” Beel says around a mouthful of breakfast omelette, something black and squishy between the layers of egg. It makes them poke their own omelette with a fork, relieved to see the slimy substance missing. Whatever it is clearly isn’t safe for human consumption.

“Yeah, you know how he gets,” Mammon chimes in. “Sometimes he just has his moods.” 

“More than likely,” Satan says, looking over the top of his book, “it’s that time of the century when he molts.” 

“Lucifer molts?” they ask and several nods meet them. “That must be miserable with four wings.” 

“Oh it certainly is,” Satan says with a gleam in his eyes.

It’s late at night, after Lucifer has failed to show up for dinner, that they approach his private study. They knock on the shelf where they know the door is, but there is no answer. Pressing their ear close, they don’t hear the usual music that he plays during the long hours he spends buried in a tomb of paperwork.

Maybe he’s in his room? They’re halfway there when they hear shifting coming from behind the wall of the hallway. At first they fear rodents; devil knows what passes for mice or rats in the Devildom.

But the idea of rodents or pests living within the walls of the House of Lamentation is almost laughable. There’s no way Lucifer would allow such things a chance under his roof. That’s when they realize that they’re standing in front of where Lilith’s door opens. 

They knock. “Go away,” Lucifer’s voice answers. Even through the wall his voice sounds pained. It’s not a tone they’ve ever heard the Avatar of Pride use. 

“Lilith,” they say, speaking the codeword for the door to reveal itself to them. 

They’ve only peeked into the sunny room when Lucifer nearly hisses at them. “I said go away.” Still they slip inside. Lucifer is sitting on the bed, the dust cover tossed off. His wings are out, all four of them stretched out and resting on the mattress under him. 

“Lucifer?” they ask, but he raises a hand to them and effectively silences them with the gesture. 

He hunches over, shielding his face in his large palms. His words are still clear when he speaks, “Please leave.” They do not miss the tiny hint of pleading in the word "please" as it leaves his lips.

“What’s wrong?” they ask.

“Leave.” He repeats again more firmly. “I wish to be alone.”

‘Stubborn,’ they think as they continue to approach. Carefully, as though speaking to a frightened animal that is about to bolt, they say, “Please let me help you.”

“There is nothing you can do. This just needs to run its course.” Lucifer replies, his crimson eyes refusing to look at them.

They are not an expert on demon wings, but they’ve read enough about birds in the human world to know that molting is painful and irritating. They remember the chickens their neighbors kept and the way the birds scratched at pin feathers for an ounce of relief. They remember their neighbor showing them how to rub the sheath to get the new feathers to unfurl. Is it the same with Lucifer’s feathers?

“If it’s pin feathers, I can help.” they say gently, standing near the edge of the bed where he sits.

Lucifer removes his palm from his face. His eyes finally meet theirs and he sighs. When did he get so soft?

His wings rise from where they rested on the mattress and he gestures to them. Carefully they kneel behind him, shifting carefully so not to disturb him too much. 

Gently, they run their fingers into his silky smooth wings. A shudder goes through his whole body at their touch and his wings give a slight quiver. ‘Sensitive,’ they quickly realize. 

Within the layers closest to his spine they find the pin feathers causing him such discomfort. In spots he obviously cannot reach on his own. Carefully their fingers work them, gently rubbing the sheath to help the offending new feathers to unfurl. As the first feather comes free, the sigh Lucifer lets out is deep and guttural at the release.

They spend time like that, sitting on Lilith’s bed as they reach deep within the downy softness of his wings to relieve his discomfort.

If he closes his eyes he can recall the memory of doing this for his younger siblings. During the years most of them had white feathered wings, he recalls applying warm cloths over patches of pin feathers during more aggressive molts.

The memory of helping to unfurl new feathers during the period when a much younger Leviathan plucked his feathers as a nervous tick. The time he fussed over Mammon’s wings while Michael ran his hands through his six. The memory of watching the twins allopreen while he helped soothe Lilith as her new feathers began to come in. Lucifer can’t help but think back on these times as the human does similar work now. 

He finds his molts humiliating and discomforting, but this closeness - if only for now - he does not mind.

* * *

Demon horns are not too unlike the horns found on goats and other animals in the human realm. Just don’t let any demon hear you make the comparison. There is a bone core and keratin layers built around that. They don’t shed like antlers, and there is a level of maintenance to them.

After learning how, one night they help Mammon; sitting on the edge of their bed with Mammon sitting on the floor between their knees.

They put down the double grit whetstone and pick up a strip of fine grit sandpaper. It’s perfect for getting into the tight spirals of Mammon’s horns, where the worst of the build up grows. The tight spirals cut into themselves if they’re neglected for too long.

So they slip the strip of sandpaper between the gaps and work it back and forth. Mammon practically melts into them, a moan escaping his lips as he leans his back into the mattress and closer to their chest as they work. 

There is a comfort as they work that Mammon has not felt in ages. Not since the troubling protrusions grew from his skull after his fall. 

He remembers the days shortly after, as limbs and scars healed over. He remembers as each of them began to grow the new bones for the horns: the pain and the itch. He remembers the trial and error of attempting to groom the unruly spirals and curves that his family suddenly found themselves with. He remembers how it was Asmodeus - never one to shy away from exploring his new body - who figured out the best ways to relieve it first.

From there it became a necessary routine, like brushing teeth. Experience over the long centuries since their fall has taught each of the seven brothers that regular upkeep is necessary. Though Mammon is one who occasionally neglects them, much to his later regret.

Since learning about them though, his human has kept the sandpaper and whetstones in one of their bathroom drawers. Various nights during the month are taken up with them as they maintain Mammon’s horns for him.

Mammon delights in the methodic rhythm as they glide the whetstone and sandpaper over his horns. It is soothing in the same way that their fingers running through his hair is. It is intimate in a way, having someone else tend to his horns.

Under the delicate touch of his human as they scrape away the excess layers of keratin, he can’t think of a time he was happier with them.

* * *

Leviathan’s demon form sheds, like the great serpent he is. The process is itchy, leaving some patches of his skin raw. During such times of shed Leviathan finds himself more irritable, so he locks himself further away in his lair. 

His human is the first to notice, ever perceptive and aware of his reclusive nature. They let themself into his lair when he doesn’t answer their knocking at his door. To make them give him a password he would have to bring his mouth above water, which is something he finds himself unwilling to do as he soaks. 

“Let me help?” they ask, looking at Levi as he sits in his tub. All of his pillows tossed on his floor as his bed became occupied with water for a hint of relief.

With only his eyes peeking out of the water, he breathes a stream of bubbles at them. He can feel his cheeks heat up even in the cool water. It is embarrassing for them to see him in such a state. 

They hum then leave and he nearly shrinks further into himself. Of course they wouldn’t stay with him. Who wants to be around the gross demon as they shed? 

Especially when he can’t bring himself to talk to them right now.

But to his surprise, they quickly return with a washcloth in hand. One that has been run under warm water. Coming back to him, they kneel on one of his pillows by the lip of the tub. They hold out their hand with the cloth in it and ask for permission again. 

When Leviathan relents, giving them a nod, they gently rub the stubborn bits of shed that cling to his skin.

Leviathan lets out a hiss, air bubbles rushing to the surface of the water. They pause slightly at the sound, but at no further protests they begin to work again.

Together they sit there. The human working at the skin on his back as he sits with his knees to his chest in the tub. Eventually his tail breaches the surface of the water to gently wrap around their wrist and guide them to the places in most need of help. 

He is so vulnerable, lost in his thoughts and the sensations of relief on his skin. But his human does not ask unwanted questions of him. They are content to sit in silence with him as they work.

* * *

In his room they run their fingers over Satan’s horns. Flecks of dead keratin come off from where they worked the whetstone. His are more curved than curled, allowing easier access for maintenance. 

His horns grow in the opposite direction of Lucifer’s, much to his own annoyance at the comparison. However, the downward curve of them does lend to easier work; but the dip in them always gives him a bit more trouble than he’s willing to admit though.

Both of them sit on the couch, the back of his head leaning into their chest. One of their legs is over the side of the couch, planted on the floor. Satan’s armored tail curls around their calf, playfully giving the occasional squeeze as they work.

Unlike his brothers, this is all he’s ever known. He did not need to make any adjustments to changes in his body after the fall. He came into existence with horns, but there was still the learning curve of learning to tend to them. After so many thousands of years, he’s figured out what he likes and the best methods to maintain them himself. 

However, it is nice to let his human take over for him on a lazy afternoon. There is an odd sense of calm he has difficulty naming as he sits there, between their knees as they run their fingers over his horns and through his hair. Perhaps “Bliss” is what he would approximate the feeling to be.

Every now and then they hum a small tune as they work, peeling away the excess keratin and redefining the healthy shape of his horns. 

A feeling of content settles over him as he reads, listening to their humming, and relishing in the feeling of their hands in his hair.

* * *

Asmodeus is the king of pampering and self-care. His skincare routine is notoriously through. His horn and wing maintenance is no less involved.

Though he did not keep the feathers after his fall, his four bat-like wings do require care. All of his skin is silky smooth, he will not allow the leathery wings to be an exception. Every inch of him must be delightful to touch after all. 

In his bathroom, with their feet in the warm water as they sit on the tiled edge of his tub, they run oil along Asmo’s wings. They delight in the velvety touch of them at the base where they connect with his back.

Even with a green-tea facemask on, Asmo can smell the delightful hints of rose in the oil as they work. His superior sense of smell delights in the various scents, picking out the various hints in each of his cosmetic products. The rose in the oil, the tea of the facemask, the warm sugary vanilla of skin rub he used to exfoliate his shoulders, and the pleasant perfume of the bath bomb he dropped into the tub. He envelops himself in so many wonderful scents.

To the human it can be a bit overwhelming, so many scents at once and no demonic ability to isolate them as Asmo does. But still, they don’t mind as they enjoy the soft leathery texture under their fingers as they work the oil into his four wings.

They press tiny kisses into the thin healed over scars in his wings, and Asmo melts further into their touch. This is the lap of luxury to him. These moments of self-care that he lives for.

He finds them even more enjoyable with their presence.

* * *

Beezlebub’s horns are unique within the household. They don’t just protrude upward or curve outward: they follow the curve of his skull before turning upwards. More so than his brothers, neglecting them leads to the buildup digging painfully into his scalp. 

It is hard to get the sandpaper strips in between his scalp and the horns, but once his human does, it is smooth sailing. They work the fine grit back and forth, with enough force to peel the layers; but gentle enough to not cause friction against his hair and scalp. They are far less aggressive about it than Belphie, and he finds himself humming contentedly under their care.

The pleasant song of his replacing the grumble of his stomach.

Beezlebub’s wings are sensitive and delicate in their way too; another uniqueness amongst his family. The delicate nature of his wings juxtapose his strong, muscular build. They do not molt like Lucifer’s and don’t require oiling to bring in moisture like Mammon and Asmodeus’s do. His wings do not shed, but they go through periods where they itch.

They work a tiny bit of wing wax, warming it between their fingers before bringing it to his wings. They work the wax into the base where his shoulder blades meet and the place his wings protrude from. Their fingers massage the hard to reach place and he finds himself relaxing into their touch as the knots of his muscles are worked out.

He finds their care echoes that of Belphegor and Lilith back in the Celestial realm so long ago. How back in those days he and Belphie would preen each other's feathers, and how they would both work together on Lilith’s wings as she grew into them. A sense of unity and bonding through the activity of allopreening.

It is not easy for Beel to recall the loss of what he had; but under his human’s care he finds the ache lessened.

* * *

Belphegor is the worst offender of the household when it comes to his self-care and maintenance. His tail ends up matted quite constantly, a weird mirror to the bed-head he usually sports after naps. The curve and bulk of his horns make them time consuming to maintain, so they end up neglected quite often. 

At least it’s too time consuming for the Avatar of Sloth. 

They work the whetstone with Belphie’s head in their lap, his arms around their waist like he’s holding a pillow. They’re using the rougher grit of the stone, aggressively trying to rid the excessive buildup within their spiraling shape. Though there is nothing aggressive in the way that they work their hands, one under his horn to anchor him as the other works. 

The sensation is rhythmic: back and forth along his horn. It is relief, the itch of the buildup fading with each pass of the grit. It is comforting and Belphie finds himself lulled into a light slumber as they work. 

When he wakes, his head feels lighter and he finds their hands at work in his tail. They’re brushing out the matted tangles with a brush. His tail twitches in their hands, looking to swish back and forth in contentment. He settles for letting out a hum to show his pleasure instead. They smile at the sound, continuing to brush the massive poof at the end of his tail. 

If it means his favorite human will do this more often, then Belphie is fine to let his maintenance routine slack.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been writing a lot of angst lately, so I felt some fluff was needed. Grooming is one of my favorite acts of love, so here y’all go!
> 
> Comments and feedback fuels my soul! 
> 
> Also, just wanted to say that with the winter season really kicking in, being in the middle of a global pandemic, and seasonal depression hitting some of us like a brick falling from the sky; make sure you check in with friends and family and take time to take care of yourselves. Stay safe and healthy out there ♥


End file.
